


Correspondence

by Transposable_Element



Series: Engagements [3]
Category: Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
Genre: F/M, Letters, Love Letters, Misunderstandings, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transposable_Element/pseuds/Transposable_Element
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love by post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rough Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger Walker convinces his friend David to write to Titty (now called Mavis). Unfortunately, both men are drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: coarse language circa 1944.

23 September, 1944

Dear Miss Walker,

Your brother wants me to write to you. He has the idea you might like me. I don’t know why. If you really are his sister, and not some unrelated female named Walker, you know that once he starts yabbering on about something there’s no way to make him stop. We have been flying together four months, so I know just how annoying he can be. If he wasn’t such an ace flight engineer I’d have bunged him out of the Lanc weeks ago.

He has told me some interesting things about you. He says you are an artist and too highly strung to be a nurse. He also says you have a nickname that I mustn’t ask about. This makes me wonder. It sounds as though there must be something dodgy about it. He also said you are his prettiest sister. He asked me not to mention that he’d said so, but I didn’t promise, so I am not breaking my word by telling you. Sometimes he swears he has 14 sisters, but I don’t think that can be right. Other times he says three, which sounds more likely. Of course, if there are 14 that would make the claim that you’re the prettiest more interesting. This is simple maths. He also tells me that his mother (and yours, if you really are his sister) is an Aussie. I have my doubts. I wonder whether he says it just to stop me calling him a pommy bastard.

About me: I am 26 and from South Australia. My father was a coal miner. He died when I was 14. I managed to finish school anyway and go to university on a scholarship. I have two sisters. Jenny is older and married. Mary is younger and is engaged to a worthless bludger. I’ve no idea what she sees in him. Walker says I ought to tell you what "bludger" means, but I think I will leave it for you to figure out.

When I was called up I went into the RAAF. I washed out of pilot training but it’s just as well. I am such a good navigator I would have been wasted as a pilot. I should probably tell you that I have a rather nasty burn scar on my face (right cheek and ear) from a fire during an op about a year ago. I am still extremely good-looking, or so people tell me. I wouldn’t know as I haven’t looked in a glass since being disfigured.

Please don’t take any of this seriously. Just between you and me, I’m a bit pissed, and anyhow, Walker made me write this. I hope he will get off my back now. I mean that literally as he is leaning over my shoulder. He is also pissed, even more than I am. Of course he denies it. You needn’t write back if you’d rather not. Can’t imagine why you’d want to.

Sincerely,

David Mackie (Sgt.)

Dear Titty, If you’re wondering why this paper is crumpled, it’s because Mackie wasn’t going to send it. I fished it out of the wastebasket when he wasn’t looking (probably you recognized my writing on the envelope). He really is a good bloke, just a few rough edges that I put down mostly to shyness, but great fun and extremely clever. He has saved my life once already. The burn scar isn’t bad at all. All the WAAFs flirt with him shamelessly, but he doesn’t seem to notice, the stupid bugger. He is teaching me how to talk like an Aussie, since Mother always refused to. Roger.

 

29 September, 1944

Dear Sargent Mackie,

I don’t think you can know Roger as well as you say, otherwise you’d have destroyed your letter to prevent him from stealing it and sending it to me. On the other hand, perhaps you knew that would happen and that’s why you threw the letter away rather than tear it up. I learned about that sort of thing in a lecture on psychology.

You don’t seem to expect me to write to you, so I hope you’re not disappointed that I have. Your letter was so pathetic that I couldn’t help myself (Roger will tell you that I was the kind of child who tried to save wounded birds and animals). Another reason I’m replying is that although Roger has many faults, the people he likes are usually worth knowing. He says you have saved his life once already. I suppose I ought to thank you.

I’m sorry he told you I’m his prettiest sister as it may give you a false impression. It doesn’t much matter anyway, as our older sister is married and our younger sister is far too young to be thought pretty by a grown man. There are only three of us. I wonder what he means by the number 14. It probably has some significance, but I’ve no idea what. I suppose he might be including some old friends of ours as sisters, but that would only bring the total up to six, and anyway I'm certainly not prettier than Dot. Honestly, you never know with Roger, it’s possible he is counting us using a strange system of his own devising.

You have the advantage of me as all I have is your letter, whereas Roger has apparently told you quite a lot about me. What did you study at university? What do you think of England? (Have you even had a chance to see much but the base?) Do you have any plans for after the war is over? Like most of us you are probably planning to think about it when the time comes. It’s hard to imagine the future right now.

I’m vexed that Roger says I am too highly strung to be a nurse. It’s true that I washed out of nursing school. My sister Susan warned me it wasn’t for me. I should have listened to her, as she is usually right about that sort of thing. But I have a year of training and now I’m an aide at a military convalescent hospital and am getting along pretty well. Not long ago I started making sketches of some of our patients to help them work up to looking at themselves in a glass. For some reason they find looking at my drawings easier than looking in the mirror or at photographs, or looking directly at their injuries if that’s possible (it depends on the injury of course). I don’t understand why the drawings are easier, as I don’t try to “clean up” the likeness and I try to make it as accurate as possible. Perhaps it’s just that I try to capture normal expressions on their faces when I do my sketches, so they look natural, instead of having that frozen, stricken look that people often have in photographs, or the self-conscious, posed expression people put on when looking in the glass. Or perhaps it’s just that I have to really look at them to draw them, and they realize that if I can do it, so can they. I have come to see beauty in many things most people generally think of as ugly or even horrifying. I doubt you are disfigured enough to be beautiful.

I’m not sure what else to say as I suppose you didn’t really want me to read your letter in the first place. Please thump Roger for me. If you aren’t annoyed at him for sending your letter to me, I’m sure he’s done something else to deserve it.

Sincerely,

Mavis Walker

P.S. Yes, our mother is Australian, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t call Roger a pommy bastard anyway.

 

2 October, 1944

Dear Miss Walker,

I am very very very very very extremely awfully sorry about that letter. You’re right, I should’ve known Walker would nick it and send it to you. I was a little drunk when I wrote it, so I don’t remember everything that was in it, but I know there were a few words that I would never have used if I’d thought there was a chance you would actually read it (you used one of them in your P.S., to punish me I suppose). I wish I hadn’t written it. I’m sorry. I was going to say that it was kind of you to write to me anyway, but yours wasn’t a kind letter. I think I would’ve preferred not to know that Walker sent mine to you. I will flog him as soon as I can find him.

I am extremely sorry. You needn’t reply.

David Mackie

 

2 October, 1944

Dear Titty,

What in hell did you write in your letter to make Mackie so angry? He thinks that you were making fun of him. I told him that didn’t seem like you, but he won’t show the letter to me, so I can’t form an intelligent opinion about it. What did you say? It must have been brutal, because he’s in a real state. Whatever it was, you’ve got to apologize! He blames me, of course.

Roger

 

4 October, 1944

Roger,

If anybody ought to apologize, it’s you. Honestly, what were you thinking, sending that letter to me after he threw it away? This time you’ve really gone too far. I suppose I oughtn’t to have written back, but I didn’t realize it would upset him so much, as I don’t even know him! But you do, and you ought to have realized. I expect you were drunk when you stole the letter, but you must have had plenty of time to sober up before you posted it. You ought to have more sense!

I’m not certain why he’s so angry. I thought his letter was funny, so I tried to write a funny letter back, and I seem to have failed miserably. Of course I will apologize to him, but you'll need to find out for me exactly why he's so angry. Also, please tell him I'm sorry, otherwise he probably won't even read my apology.

In his letter to me he said he was going to flog you. I hope he has.

My name is Mavis.

MAVIS

 

7 October, 1944

Dear MAVIS,

I’ve apologized to Mackie. I think it quite handsome of me, seeing as you say he threatened to flog me.

Believe me, I’m sorry that I ever suggested he write to you. Is that enough of an apology for you? Let me know if you require any more groveling from me.

Mackie has calmed down now, but I think he’s still angry. The only thing he will tell me is that you described his letter as “pathetic.” That seems to have bothered him a great deal. I suppose it was a blow to his pride, or something of the sort. I think he’d have been happier if you were offended. I’m not certain you ought to write to him, but I suppose it can’t make things much worse, so just do whatever you like. I wash my hands of the whole affair!

Roger 

P.S. I can understand why you don’t want to be Titty any more, but Mavis doesn’t suit you at all. What’s your middle name? For the life of me, I can’t remember. Whatever it is, it must be better than Mavis.

 

9 October, 1944

Dear Sargent Mackie,

I’m sorry that my letter upset you. I didn’t realize how much it would embarrass you to know that I had read yours. I see now that it would have been kinder not to reply, but I don’t think you need to be embarrassed about your letter. It wasn’t nearly as bad as you seem to think. In fact, I thought it was funny. That’s why I tried to be funny in my reply, but obviously I didn’t succeed. I truly didn’t mean to make fun of you. I’m sorry that it appeared that way to you. I should have been more careful. 

Roger says that you were especially bothered that I described your letter as “pathetic.” I’ve just read it again, and quite honestly it is pathetic. You begin by saying that you don’t know why Roger would think I might like you, and you end by saying that you can’t think of a reason I would want to write back to you. Even when you boast, you put in something to diminish yourself: you’re an excellent navigator, but only after you washed out as a pilot; you’re good-looking, but you can’t bear to look in the glass. The whole letter reads as though you expect me to despise you (for future reference, assuming that a girl a snob is not flattering).

I don’t know why you think I’d look down my nose at you, anyway. You went to university on a scholarship, so you must be very clever. You’re an RAAF navigator, so you must have courage. You haven’t bunged Roger out of that aircraft (yet), so you must have the patience of a saint. Your scar doesn’t sound bad, and even if it were bad, no woman worth tuppence would be put off by something like that.

As for the word “bastard,” which you seemed to think I’d find shocking: for God’s sake, I’m an aide in a convalescent hospital! Many of the men here have lost large or important bits of themselves, or they’re badly shell-shocked, or both. They’re in agony, mostly mental rather than physical by the time they get here, and yes, sometimes they curse a blue streak. Mostly they curse Jerry, but sometimes they include God, their commanding officers, Churchill, the government in general, or the doctors and nurses. “Bugger” and “bloody hell” are the least of it, believe me. I probably know a lot more curse words than you do by now. So “bastard” doesn’t shock me at all, especially when applied to Roger. I put it in because I thought you would find it funny. I just now started to write that it wasn’t my fault that you thought I was punishing you, but I suppose it was my fault, at least partly. I shouldn’t have expected you to understand me when we don’t know each other. I’m sorry.

I have just read what I’ve written so far, and I’m afraid some of it may sound angry. I don’t intend it to. I suppose I ought to rewrite it, but I’ve had such a difficult time writing this, I can’t bear to start over. Besides, I don’t think I can do much better. So if I seem angry, please understand that I am not angry at you, I’m angry at Roger and at myself.

Perhaps we should start over. We can declare that everything that’s gone wrong so far is Roger’s fault. And you might as well call me Mavis. Given the things we’ve been saying to each other, it seems a little silly to try to be formal.

Sincerely,

Mavis Walker

P.S. I am not speaking to Roger at the moment, but if you don’t mind relaying a message, please tell him that it isn’t surprising that he can’t remember my middle name, as I don’t have one.

 

18 October, 1944

Dear Maves,

Thank you for your honest letter. I’ve been trying to write a reply for the last week.

Frankly, I almost chucked your letter in the bin without reading it, but I’m glad I didn’t. I thought that reading it would only make me angrier. Luckily I wanted to be angrier, so I decided to read it. By the end I was struck by how well you seemed to understand me. I didn’t expect that from a complete stranger. I also realized that I owe you an explanation for my reaction.

I’m lonely, and I’m afraid. I’m a strong man (this is not boasting, it’s just true), but every time I go out on an op I feel weak. I’m afraid I won’t come back. I’m afraid that I’ll come back so mangled that nobody will be able to stand the sight of me. We lose men regularly, sometimes whole crews (it’s bloody difficult to bail out of a Lancaster). Of course you will worry about your brother—I know you’re very fond of him, even though you quarrel. It’s just how I am with my sisters. I can’t honestly tell you that you oughtn’t to worry about him.

I haven’t seen my family in a very long time. I don’t know how to talk to British girls. I only have a few mates here, and your brother is the best of them. I’m shy, and I cover my shyness with bluster. I’m beginning to think this is a bad strategy. I’m worried that I’ve been away from my studies so long that I’ve forgotten everything I’ve learned. Even if I survive the war, I’ve no idea what will become of me. It’s not surprising I sounded pathetic. I probably sound pathetic now.

I read your first letter again, and it isn’t at all what I remembered. There’s nothing in it to make me angry, so I think I must have made myself angry. Knowing that you’d read my letter was humiliating. I suppose I preferred feeling angry at you to feeling ashamed of myself. I’m sorry for being so unfair to you.

Reading your letter now, the thing that interests me most about it is the drawings you wrote about. Have you ever drawn a self-portrait? I’m curious. It’s not that I want to know what you look like. But I do wonder how you see yourself. Perhaps if you draw yourself, you’ll understand why your patients find it easier to look at your drawings than to look in the mirror.

Thank you again for making the effort to explain yourself. I would like to keep writing to you, if it’s all right with you. I’d rather not mention it to Walker, though, so I haven’t passed along your message to him. Besides, you really ought to make it up with him. It's better not to leave these things dangling. Life is uncertain.

Luck,

David 

 

20 October, 1944

Dear David,

I like this letter much better. It’s not pathetic at all. Of course you’re afraid and lonely. So am I. There’s no shame in it.

I used to like to imagine myself in all sorts of dangerous, exciting, and exotic adventures. Now the thing I dream about most is peace: my family safe, the friends who have died come back to life. I often wonder when my luck will run out, because it seems impossible that I haven’t lost anybody who’s really close to me. So I wait for fate to strike someone I love. I assume Roger has told you about Daddy and John, both out in the Pacific. Perhaps he has told you about Susan and how worried her husband is about his family in Italy. And of course I worry about Roger. He’s my little brother, and I love him even when he’s a pain in the arse. I have friends in every branch of the service, in every theatre of the war.

The war drags on and on. It seems the end may be in sight here in Europe, perhaps just a matter of months, but they say the war in the Pacific could go on for years, that the Japanese will never surrender, that they’ll fight to the last man. Who knows how it will end out there? You must worry about your family in Australia. I don’t understand how we can endure this. But we do, somehow.

I hope I don’t sound despairing. Despite these flying gas pipes, the tide of the war has turned. I know that.

Oddly enough, I don’t think I’ve ever drawn a self-portrait. I suppose I ought to. It’s always so much harder to really look at oneself than to look at others. It’s not just the problem of the image being reversed in the glass, which makes more of a difference than you might think, but the way we automatically adjust our expressions, the way we pose. It’s almost impossible to catch oneself unawares. After all, I can’t look at myself when I’m not looking at myself. (I hope this makes sense.) But I ought to try it, it’s something every artist should do. Perhaps if it turns out well I will send it to you.

I was going to correct you on the spelling of my name, but then I decided that I rather like “Maves.” I assume it rhymes with “waves”? Roger says Mavis doesn’t suit me, and I agree with him, but it’s all I’ve got, since I don’t have a middle name. I will tell you my old nickname if you swear by everything you hold sacred never to call me by it. And if I tell you why I don’t use it any more, you may understand why I find the idea of two drunken men sitting down to write a silly letter to a girl so very charming.

You’re probably right not to tell Roger I’ve written to you. And of course you're right that I ought to forgive him (again) for being an ass (again). I'll write to him now.

Yours truly,

Maves

P.S. If you’re wondering why I put a false name on the envelope, it’s because I thought Roger might see it. I also tried to disguise my handwriting. It was great fun deciding on a name to put on it. I hope you don’t think it silly, but I enjoy make-believe. I hope you liked getting a letter from Delilah Pickleford. I hope it made you laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David's terse writing style, including the sign-off "Luck," is deliberately modeled after my dad's, but I was about halfway through writing this before I realized that in many ways this story parallels my parents' story. There are some major differences: my parents are American and from a later generation, they didn't start off by quarreling, and my dad never saw any combat. But he was in the air force when a mutual friend suggested my mother write to him; the class difference between them was similar to David and Titty's, though not exactly the same; my grandfather died when my father was very young; etc. My father is neither as belligerent nor as sensitive as David, but he has a similar kind of defensiveness, a lot of which I think comes from having grown up poor and then living most of his adult life surrounded by people from a much more privileged background.


	2. Excerpts From a Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selections from letters, November 1944 - February 1945.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of the letters in this chapter are complete, but some of them are just excerpts. I hope it's clear enough. Of course I've left out a lot of letters as well.
> 
> Warning: Near the beginning there is a brief description of a sexual assault.

4 November, 1944, Maves to David

...I suppose now that you've promised, I'll have to tell you about my nickname. It was Titty. This doesn't mean what you might think. It was a childhood nickname, after a character in a book. I don't even remember how it started, my mother says I insisted on it and wouldn't answer to anything else. Of course, at school, and then later on when I was at nursing college, everybody called me Mavis, but the rest of the time, with my family and friends, I was Titty. A couple of years ago I started to think I should stop using the nickname at all, because it didn't seem to fit any more. And every once in a while some stranger would hear it and would give me trouble about it (usually about how it wasn't very appropriate for someone with a figure like mine). But it wasn't too bad, and by then most people called me Mavis, so I didn't worry about it very much. 

Then last March an old school friend, one of the people who was still calling me Titty, came to visit me on her way home for a few days of leave. Of course I asked her to call me Mavis when anybody else was around, but she kept forgetting. Unfortunately one of the times she forgot was when we were in town at the dance hall, where there were a lot of American soldiers from a nearby base—drunken ones. Naturally they thought the name was hilarious. We tried to brazen it out, but they wouldn't stop and finally we decided to leave. Some of them followed us and started grabbing at me (you can guess what part of me), and for a few moments I was terrified, because I didn't know how far it would go. But my friends managed to get me out of there and back to quarters. I wasn't really hurt, only frightened, but that was bad enough. The next day the story was all over the American army base, and for a while after that I had trouble every time I met one of the soldiers. Actually, that's not really true: some of them didn't know who I was, and some of them did know and were quite nice, they would make their mates stop bothering me and apologize. But after what had happened that night I didn't feel comfortable going out on my own until June, when they all left.

So that's why I can't bear to be called Titty any more.

Now, tell me the truth: did Roger ever slip when he was talking about me? He still calls me Titty in letters, I'd be surprised if he never forgot.

I don't suppose you celebrate Guy Fawkes Day in Australia. Or do you? Perhaps next year we will be able to have a bonfire.

Yours,

Maves

 

7 November, 1944, David to Maves

...Thank you for telling me your secret. I promise never to tell. But it makes my blood boil, those soldiers. I was trying to think what I would have done if I'd been there. The most important thing would have been to get you safely away, but I think after that I would have gone back and broken some heads. I'm not much of a fighter, though, so I probably would have gotten my own head broken. I suppose it won't do for me to apologize on behalf of all men. I'm sorry you were so frightened, it sickens me even to think about what it must have been like. Are you sure they didn't hurt you? I suppose they were all off to Normandy after that.

I'm afraid Walker did slip once, even before I wrote that letter to you. He swore me to secrecy. How did you know?

Luck,

David

 

9 November, 1944, Maves to David

...I had one bruise, but that was all. It was frightening, but it was over quickly. I wonder sometimes what became of them, because as you say, they went off to Normandy a few months later. But I really don't like to think about it. It's over and done. By the way, I didn't tell Roger the whole story. All he knows is that some soldiers teased me about my name. But I suppose you won't be mentioning it to him anyway, since you haven't told him that you're writing to me. The only other people who know the whole thing are my friends who were with me that night, and my mother.

...I have been working on a self-portrait, as you suggested. I think it's turning out well, but it's harder than any other portrait I've ever done. It's harder to be honest about what I see, but I'm trying...

 

16 November, 1944, David to Maves 

...I like reading your letters. I have a clever plan for inducing you to write more of them. Would you like to hear it?...

 

18 November, 1944, Maves to David 

...I would love to hear your clever plan. I suspect it's the same as my own clever plan, which is to reply to your letters immediately, so that you'll write back sooner. Am I right?...

 

20 November, 1944, David to Maves 

...You have found out my clever plan! I wonder what your brother will make of my receiving so many letters from oddly-named women.

...Thank you for sending the drawing. I'm not surprised you are the prettiest sister. You look very much like I pictured you. Your expression is very thoughtful, and I can see the dreams behind your eyes. It's also a beautiful drawing regardless of the subject. I hope your patients understand the art you're making for them. I think I know now why they find it easier to look at your pictures....

 

4 December, 1944, Maves to David

...I've been wondering why you sign your letters "Luck." I've a theory that it's because it sounds like another word that you would like to use, but you're too shy. So I will test my theory by using it myself.

Love,

Maves

 

21 December, 1944

Dear Maves,

I can see why you call your mother the best of all natives. She came down to visit Roger this morning, and she brought your two nieces with her. I suppose your sister was working. They must have taken a very early train because we were eating breakfast when he got the message they were there to see him. She'd come to see him and give him his Christmas present as he hadn't been able to get home leave for Christmas. He told me I should come with him to meet her, and she took us off base for a few hours. I said I didn't want to intrude, but your mother told me not to be silly, that she and your brother would have time for a private talk later. I suppose Roger had mentioned me in a letter to her, because she said that she'd be happy to pretend to be my mum for a few hours. I didn't know what to say. I was afraid she would make a fuss over me, but she didn't. She was just very kind. She is very easy to talk to (I was on my best behavior, of course). Your nieces are very sweet and Becky is extremely well-behaved for four years old. I remember Mary at that age, and she was a terror! Your sister must be a good mum.

By the way, it's very odd to be referring to your brother as "Roger." I never call him that to his face, but I can't very well call him "Walker" in letters to you. I hope I don't slip and call him Roger, because he would find it very odd!

After I went back to base, I took out the drawing you gave me and tried to decide if you look like your mother. Judging by the drawing, you don't look very much alike, but I think you must resemble her in other ways. A few times when she was talking, it sounded just like your voice as I hear it in my head when I read your letters. She sounds quite English to me, but Roger says most people here say she still has an Aussie accent.

I will be thinking of you on Christmas Day. It's very different in Australia because it's in the summer. I will have to tell you more about that in my next letter as I must finish this up and get it in the post so you'll be sure to get it before Christmas. 

I have a few days of leave coming up in early January. Do you suppose I could come up and visit you?

Love, 

David

 

 27 December, 1944, Maves to David

Yes, of course you must come up here on your leave! I want to see you. 

I was glad you told me that you had met Mother in your last letter, because I was prepared for the possibility that she might mention you, which she did when she told how she'd gone to visit Roger. She said she liked you. She had no reason to think I would want her to like you, so she must have meant it. I suppose there's no good reason not to tell her we've been writing, but it's nice to have it be so wonderfully private, at least for the moment. 

I missed you on Christmas Day. It seems silly to say that, as we've never even seen each other. But I missed you anyway. I wanted you to be there. It was wonderful to see mother and Bridget and Susan and her family, and we had an old friend visiting, Nancy Blackett. I'm certain I've told you about her. She noticed I was quieter than usual and asked if something was wrong, so I said I was missing John and Daddy and Roger, which was certainly true. Then I felt bad, because she and John are very close, and I hadn't thought about how she might be feeling, but she only said she missed them too.

Next Christmas I want us all to be together....

 

8 January, 1945

Dear Maves,

I miss you already. I’d give anything for even one more day of leave. 

I was afraid you’d be disappointed when we finally met in person. But it was even better than I’d hoped. I still can’t believe it. It seems impossible that you could love me. I suppose that’s the kind of thing it bothers you to hear me say, but I don't mean it that way. It just seems so unlikely that we should even find each other. If Roger finds out about us he will take credit, I’m sure.

About what you said about my sounding so much more English in my letters than when I speak. I learned Composition from an Englishman, Mr. Bradshaw. He was one of my favorite teachers at school. It must be something to do with that.

I am writing this in the train and will post it as soon as I arrive. Please write to me as often as you can. Sometimes I think your letters are the only thing keeping me sane.

Love, David

 

8 January, 1945

Dear David,

I miss you already. I wish you’d had a longer leave. I have a lot to occupy me, though, with all of the extra shifts. I hope none of the supervisors find out about it, because we're really not supposed to trade duties. But everybody does it, especially when someone has a visitor.

Thank you for letting me draw you. I know it was hard at first, to let me look at you so closely. I have been working from the rough sketch of the ¾ profile, and it’s coming out well. If you like I can try to make a copy for you, though it won’t be exactly the same as the one I’m keeping for myself. I think you’ll like it.

This will be a short letter as I want to get it into the post so that you’ll have it tomorrow. Please write to me every day, if you can. I will do the same. When is your next leave?

Love, Maves

P.S. Please be careful! I couldn’t bear to lose you. 

 

18 February, 1945, Maves to David

...I have some leave coming up, but if I visit you, Roger will find out about us. Do you think it's time?...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes on this chapter.
> 
> I thought long and hard about the episode of the soldiers grabbing Titty, partly because I think sexual assault and the threat of sexual assault can be overused and end up feeling like a cheap trick. But that's not to say it should never occur in fiction, since it occurs all too often in real life. The reason I decided to use it here was to demonstrate how Titty/Mavis is trusting David by telling him more than she told members of her own family, and also because it was suggested by the nickname and the context of the war. But I tried to make it clear that the threat was very brief, that she wasnt badly hurt physically, and that her friends did a good job of protecting her. I tried to make the episode devoid of titillation. I also tried to make the soldiers' intentions ambiguous. Since her friends were able to get her away without much trouble, we can imagine the men weren't really intent on further violence. On the other hand, what I've described them doing is quite bad enough.
> 
> I hope my excuse for why David doesn't sound very Australian in his letters is plausible. I'm just not confident of my ability to make him sound Aussie without sounding like a caricature. The reason a little more of the Aussie idiom got into that first letter was that he was drunk when he wrote it.


	3. Telegrams

1 March, 1945

10:23 AM Mary Walker to Mavis Walker:   
ROGER SAFE INVALIDED HOME OVERJOYED WILL WRITE LOVE MOTHER

11:54 AM  Mavis Walker to Mary Walker:   
WHERE IS ROGER MUST WIRE HIM URGENT

12:44 PM  Mary Walker to Mavis Walker   
ARRIVES TOMORROW MORNING HOSPITAL PORTSMOUTH WHATS WRONG

4:53 PM Mavis Walker to Mary Walker:   
CANT EXPLAIN NOW WILL WIRE TOMORROW

 

2 March, 1945

8:12 AM Mavis Walker to Roger Walker:  
WHERE IS DAVID MACKIE IS HE ALIVE

11:17 AM Roger Walker to Mavis Walker:  
MACKIE HERE CONCUSSED OTHERWISE FINE ARE YOU KNIVES

12:20 PM Mavis Walker to Roger Walker:  
LETTER FOLLOWS LOVE TO YOU BOTH WHAT KNIVES

12:25 PM Mavis Walker to Mary Walker:  
NOTHING WRONG EXPLANATION FOLLOWS SO RELIEVED


	4. Letter Follows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word is out.

2 March 1945

[Written on the envelope: Please let someone read this aloud to you if necessary. I don’t think there’s anything in it that would embarrass you.]

Dear David,

I have never in my life been as happy as when Roger wired that you were home and alive and (it sounds like) not too badly hurt. But I won't feel completely comfortable until I hear from you or see you. I’m going to try to get leave so I can visit you (I will probably have to say it’s to visit Roger).

Since we heard the plane went down, I’ve been frantic. I kept thinking about what you said about how hard it is to bail out of a Lancaster. So many awful things could have happened to you and Roger, and I imagined them all. I prayed for the first time in years, even though I felt silly doing it. After the first few days it seemed that the best we could hope for was that you'd been captured, and at this point it's hard to trust in the good faith and mercy of the Germans. And then yesterday we heard that Roger was safe, and I was glad, but still so worried about you. It did give me hope that you'd gotten out, too. Of course nobody thought to tell me about you, so I had to wire Roger and ask him. I had to wait until the next morning, and then it seemed to take forever for him to reply! And now I can’t sit still because I’m so relieved, I feel like leaping and spinning. And I want to tell everybody. Do you mind?

I suppose it was stupid of us not to tell anybody, but for a long while I wasn’t really sure what there was to tell. Now I am. In any case, Roger knows now, and I’ll have to tell my mother something.

If you have a concussion, that explains why you didn’t wire me yourself. They probably won’t even let you have pen and paper for a while. I can’t imagine what it must have been like trying to get back to safety with a concussion. You were out there for a whole week! I hope Roger took care of you. I will keep this short as I don’t want to tire you. Please write if you can, even if you have to dictate. I’m sure every lady in the WVS is used to transcribing love letters by now.

All my love,

Maves

 

2 March 1945

Dear Mother,

I'm sorry if I frightened you with my telegram, and I'm sorry for not responding right away. It's just that I didn't think I could answer the question "what's wrong" without a long explanation. 

Do you remember David Mackie, the navigator in Roger's crew? You met him just before Christmas, and you told me you liked him. Well, he and I have been writing to each other since October. Roger started it, but the beginning was a bit of a mess, mostly Roger's fault (or at least we decided to blame it on him), so we didn't tell him about it. When I heard the plane went down I was worried about David as well as Roger. But I've just had a wire from Roger, and he says David is all right. The wire says he's concussed, but otherwise fine. I hope I'll hear from him soon. I'm not sure what else to say, as David and I have kept all of this private until now, but I expect I'll be able to tell you more in a few days.

Love,

Mavis

 

3 March, 1945

Dear Sneaky,

I suppose the first thing you want to know is how Mackie is doing (I’m fine now that I’m being properly fed, so you needn't worry about me, not that you've asked). Well, this morning he was sitting up and making sense for the first time in days. I think he will be all right. They won’t let him do much, though, or I’m sure he would write to you. He began with what was probably a mild concussion and would've been all right pretty quickly if he’d been able to rest and let it heal. But of course we were on the move the whole time, and that made everything worse. He wasn’t too bad on the first day but made less and less sense as time went on. A couple of times I wondered if it would be better to let the Germans capture us, but luckily it didn’t come to that. He’s doing much better now. 

You and Mackie have been very clever! I’m extremely impressed. I had no idea you were writing to each other. He explained a bit of it to me this morning. You must have covered your tracks very carefully! I suppose it must have been you he went to see during his leave in January. He came back looking very chipper but wouldn’t say where he’d been or what he'd been up to. I said I suspected female companionship of some kind, but he still wouldn’t say. You haven’t been doing anything you oughtn’t, have you, Sneaky? While he was concussed he did ramble a bit about a woman, but I didn’t recognize the name. It sounded like Knives, but from your wire it seems that's not it. Is it Knaves? Either way it doesn’t sound like much of a pet name. (I think I will call you Sneaky from now on. It suits you better than either Titty or Mavis.) I hope you two realize that you have me to thank for your…whatever it is. Are you engaged, Sneaky? You didn’t ask for my consent, but I will grant it.

As for our daring journey across enemy territory, after we bailed out Mackie and I found each other pretty quickly. I don’t know what happened to most of the rest of the crew. At this point I think the best we can hope for is that they got captured. But I’m afraid most of them probably didn’t even get out. Lancs are bad that way, though beautiful machines otherwise. She was a good old bird. Mackie had cracked his head and I’d broken my leg (in two places, which I didn't realize until I got into the hands of the medics), but we managed to rig a splint for me. The big problem was that we had almost nothing to eat. As you know, that is my very worst nightmare, more horrifying than any other kind of pain or torture I can imagine (possibly I’m not very imaginative). We did find a few things to eat along the way, but all we really had were some very meager emergency rations and we went through those in a couple of days. No water either, of course, but luckily he had a canteen and we got some chances to fill it up. It's a good thing we didn't have far to go. If we'd been healthy and hadn't had to keep stopping and finding cover, we could have done it in half a day. One evening we came to a farm and stole in to get water at the pump. I’m sure a woman saw us, but pretended not to. I don’t know whether it meant she was on our side, or just sick and tired of the war and didn’t want to bother doing anything about us. We took a chance and slept in her barn for a few hours. I was half-tempted to go and ask her for some food straight out, but it didn't seem worth the risk, because for one thing we didn't know who else might be about. Otherwise we slept out, wherever we could get a good bit of cover, and most nights it wasn’t too cold. We had a pretty good idea of which direction we should go, and we must have been right, or right enough, because finally we ran into an American patrol. They were very surprised, and they very nearly shot us before they realized what we were. For a moment I thought we were done for, which would have been ironic. But they fed me, so they are angels. I will tell you more when we see each other, because I know you love a good story. I think it will be better when Mackie is well enough to chime in, because it’s properly a two-man story. I hope he can remember his bits.

I'm honestly very pleased about you and Mackie, and not only because it proves that I was right all along. It makes a good story even better.

Love, 

Roger

 

5 March, 1945

Dear Maves,

I am dictating this to a very kind WVS lady named Mrs. Walker. Funny coincidence. Roger offered to do it, but I think this is better. I hope you can get leave soon. I want to see you. Please tell me as soon as you know.

I’m sorry you were so worried. We got back as quickly as we could. Some of it I don’t remember very clearly, because my mind was fuzzy a lot of the time. I don't remember bailing out at all, or hitting my head. Roger broke his leg when he landed. So between us we had three good legs and one good head. Two men can make do with that much, for a few days at least. I don’t think either of us would’ve made it back without the other. Dunston, our tail gunner, died on the ground. We found him and did what we could for him, but I’m no medic and neither is Roger. I don’t know what happened to the other members of our crew. None of them have come back, or if they have, nobody’s told me.

The doctors tell me I will need at least a week of rest before I can think of getting up. They say eventually I ought to be as good as new. It’s hard to believe this, as I’m still foggy. I worry that I’ve scrambled my brain forever. But I already feel much better than I did two days ago. Some bits and pieces about the last few days have been coming back to me, which is encouraging. Roger is recovering quicker than I am. Apart from his leg his only real problem was nutritional. I’m glad I was not very alert during most of our journey. Listening to Roger on starvation rations for a week might have been enough to kill me all by itself, but as it was I didn’t pay attention to most of what he was saying, so it didn't bother me too much. I remember saying a few things about you. Roger claims not to have realized it was you I was talking about until he got your wire. He keeps calling me a sneak.

One thing’s for certain: I am done with flying now. They won’t send me up again with this head, and I was near the end of my second tour, anyway. I can’t say I’m sorry. Roger may have to go once he's healed, but there’s plenty of work for him on the ground, and he's also near the end of his tour, so perhaps not. And I really do think the war in Europe will be over soon. I doubt they'd send him out to the Pacific for only a handful of ops.

I’m going to try to write the last few lines myself. They will probably be very wobbly. I apologize in advance.

I think if we were engaged, and people knew about it, somebody would have told you what happened to me sooner. What do you think? I love you. Tell anybody you like.

Love, 

David

 

6 March, 1945

David, was that a proposal? I want to be sure before I say yes. 

I would like to write more but I don’t know whether they’re letting you read letters yourself yet, and I don’t feel like letting any WVS ladies, even nice ones named Walker, know everything I’m thinking and feeling just now. You’ll have to use your imagination, but not for very long because I have two days leave starting Friday! This is the leave that was coming up, when I was planning to go see you. I only remembered it when I went in to ask about getting leave. I am hoping there will be a train Thursday night so I will arrive early in the morning and have more time to spend with you.

All my love, always,

Maves

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not planning to add more to this, because this is the end of the phase of the relationship that takes place primarily by post. But if you're curious about what happens next, there's a little more about David and Mavis (mostly Mavis), as well as some of the other Swallows and Amazons characters [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1831738/chapters/4117905), in chapters 16-22 and 25-27. They are supporting characters in a story about Susan Pevensie from the Narnia books, so read at your own risk.


End file.
